Yellow Roses
by celinawrites
Summary: It's such a shame Sherlock had to destroy the vase of yellow roses that arrived for Molly that day. He had no idea just how much effort it took for that flower arrangement to become what it was. -Strings of a Web universe. See main story at teme16's page-


**AN:** Hey, everyone! As I said before in one of the ANs in _Strings_, I will be posting some side stories and drabbles connected to that universe in this account. This is the first one of the stories, and I hope you like it! I know it isn't that interesting, but don't you worry. Better ones are going to come up. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read _Strings_ and come by my account for the side stories. You are all awesome, awesome, awesome. Virtual cookies, pizza, and nice stuff are heading your way right now. Have a great day! - _Celina_

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"Uhmm...Sir?" the exhausted voice of the florist derailed his train of thoughts. He immediately snapped his attention towards the woman who was beginning to grow impatient and raised both of his eyebrows.

"Mhmm?" He hummed, lowering the front part of his baseball cap.

"Will this do?" She asked, gesturing at the vase filled with beautiful, fully bloomed red roses. She sighed, looking at her flower arrangement station, seeing all of the the flowers that were bunched up in every corner. This was the messiest her station had been since the funeral she attended to a few years ago.

"Hmm..." The man hummed, examining the vase for a good few minutes before his eyes twitched and his mouth curved into a frown. "Eh."

The woman sighed in defeat. She was past the point of being annoyed and was now just praying that this man, whoever he was, would finally make up his mind and leave her shop. Forever. This customer had been inside her shop for more than 2 hours already, and he can't seem to be satisfied with her flower arrangements no matter how hard she tried to make it look perfect.

Every now and then he would pick up a flower from their display vases and hand it to her, but after she carefully arranges his selections, he would always look at her with distaste.

The only reason why she has been putting up with him is because he offered to pay for every single flower he picked, and to pay double the arrangement fees.

After a few more arrangements, five or six- she had lost count -the woman was beginning to feel hopeless. This customer will never be satisfied, and he had pushed her to the edge of the cliff. At the brink of tears, she was about to tell him to go and find another florist when-

"Do you have yellow roses?" said the man.

"...Yes." replied the woman, already knowing where this was going. He was going to request for them, and have her arrange another vase.

"Could you arrange them for me?"

_Damn it,_ she cursed repeatedly in her head. She looked at the floor for a minute before raising her head and giving the dreaded customer a very fake smile, "Yes, of course, Sir."

The man smirked at her response and turned away to examine the other flowers. "I'm sure about it this time. Don't you worry."

"Alright..." said the woman, beginning to work. She didn't exactly believe what he said but carefully worked the bunch of flowers into the vase nevertheless.

When the arrangement was done, the florist wiped the sweat off her forehead and turned the vase to face the man. She crossed her fingers behind her back and sighed, "How about this now?"

The man did not respond at first. He eyed the vase skeptically, and then slowly trailed his vision to the woman. His face remained deadpan, and suddenly she was beginning to feel nervous. "...Sir?"

The man's lips finally curved into a satisfied smile, "This will do."

The woman couldn't help but heave out in relief. She planted both of her hands on her desk and felt the stress ebbing away from her. But before she could finally thank the insufferable customer for not making her work another arrangement, she heard the bell of the door chime.

Lifting her head, she saw the man carrying the vase of yellow flowers out of the shop. Before she could dash away from her station and stop him from leaving, a slip of paper on the counter caught her eye. Taking it in her hands, she saw it was a cheque. Suddenly, she was stumbling backward and knocking over vases of flowers behind her. She lifted her shaking hands and read what was scrawled in cursive handwriting just to make sure she was not hallucinating.

The cheque was addressed to her with an amount large enough for her to start another flower shop, and below the number was a signature signed with an obnoxious smiley face in the end.

"J. Moriarty"


End file.
